Chickenpox
by trufflemores
Summary: Chickenpox!Blaine. Kurt puts mittens on Blaine's hands to keep him from scratching at the chickenpox blisters. Feverish fluff ensues. Klaine. Sick!Blaine. COMPLETE.


**Disclaimer**: I do not own Glee or any of its characters; Ryan Murphy and Co. hold that honor. I'm simply writing this for fun, not profit.

Trust was an important foundation for Kurt and Blaine's relationship, and Blaine felt that mittens duct-taped to his hands violated the unspoken contract between them.

"Kurt," he said, pouting, as he scratched ineffectually at the back of his shoulder for the dozenth (_hundredth_) time that day, perched on the toilet lid in their tiny bath as Kurt tested the bathwater with a hand, peacefully ignoring him. "Kurt. Take them off." It was bad enough that he had the chicken pox, worse still that the tiny red dots scattered across his back had morphed overnight into fiendishly itchy blisters, but the fact that Kurt had removed any possibility of him alleviating the horrible itchiness made the entire situation unbearable.

Pounding headache aside, he wasn't feeling particularly charitable after two full days of flu-like symptoms, coughing, sore throat, and fever leading to a hellacious weekend. He was grateful that Kurt had finished work early on Friday and bundled him up with soup and action movies and accessible cuddles while Kurt read and browsed the web and chatted via Skype with his parents. Even so, by Saturday, Blaine's cold was suddenly, unmistakably chicken pox, complete with dozens of characteristic red spots scattered across his back and torso. As if to confirm the undeniable, his fever had spiked, making comfortable sleep – already tenuous at best – impossible.

Sunday found them both a little rougher around the edges, but Kurt had paid a well-needed visit to their favorite coffeeshop after his morning pick-me-up in order to grab one of the bagels that he loved and a tasty seasonal espresso. Blaine tried not to resent him too heartily as he sipped his own orange juice dispassionately, scratching at the spots with increasing agitation until Kurt caught his hand and hauled him off to their room.

At the time, the mittens had seemed like a good idea, a viable alternative to scratching himself bloody without actually tying his hands down, but somehow it was even _worse _being able to scrabble at the skin without affecting it, an itch that he could touch and rub but not abate.

He was actually whining by the time Kurt finished with the bath, head tucked between two gloved hands as he pointedly refused to budge when Kurt tapped his bare knee to indicate that it was ready for him.

Sensing that his endeavors were going to remain largely unsupported for the duration of Blaine's discomfort, Kurt rolled his eyes before standing up and hooking his hands underneath Blaine's arms and legs, eliciting an appalled squeak when he picked him up and deposited him in the lukewarm water. "Oh my God, _Kurt_," he groaned, letting his head thunk back against the rim of the tub. He kept both hands above the water, keenly aware that Kurt would probably refuse to take the mittens off even if they were soaked through.

Even grouchy and achy and itchy past the point of reason, Blaine couldn't help but sigh appreciatively when Kurt started working shampoo through his curls, taking his time to massage along his scalp. He moaned when Kurt scratched along the back of his neck, declaring in a slow, happy voice, "You might actually be the best thing to ever happen to me. For a lot of reasons," he hastened to assure, worried that Kurt might not connect the same dots that his fever-addled mind had come up with. "But your head rubs are just – _hnngh,_" he finished, melting against his hands as Kurt let out a pleased laugh.

"If I wasn't wearing these, then I could have done it myself," Blaine pointed out sluggishly after Kurt had finished lathering his hair with conditioner, rinsing it out carefully with cupped handfuls of water and soft _mm-hmms _of agreement. "I could have," he insisted, not sure why he wanted to argue but wanting Kurt to _know _just how much he loved that he decided to wash Blaine's hair for him, anyway.

"Come on," Kurt said, draining the tub at last and bundling him off towards the bedroom, still chronically itchy but considerably more relaxed. Kurt rooted through his drawers for the comfiest pajamas he could find, helping Blaine step into them and rubbing his lower back sympathetically as Blaine clawed uselessly at his own chest. "I know, I know, I'm sorry. Do you want more soup?"

Blaine considered his options, shaking his head at last, feeling warm and almost pleasantly drowsy for a change as he curled up on top of the sheets. He only twitched a little as he rubbed at his arm with a mitten, sighing into Kurt's chest when he scooted onto the bed next to him, lying on his side facing Blaine.

Reaching down for his mittened hand, Kurt gave it a squeeze, holding it between his own for a long moment before letting it go.

Blaine tucked his cheek against Kurt's shoulder and draped the same arm over Kurt's side, grateful that he didn't have to worry about infecting him.

Trust was a two-way street; sometimes he just needed to trust that even Kurt's most abominable ideas could be useful, somehow.

The cuddles, at least, were always mutually appreciated.


End file.
